Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Emery
By the time I shower, change into clean clothes, and make my way downstairs, the inn smells like a delightful mix of fried fatty meats and maple syrup.
Mrs. Applewood stands behind the reception desk, rearranging a basket full of fresh apples. Her smile flicks up the second our eyes meet.
“Good morning, Miss Corbin,” she says in a tone somewhere between gossiping bestie and scolding mom. “You must’ve gotten in late last night…”
My stomach drops and heat races over my skin. I tug my sleeve down, covering the mark on my arm, and give her what I hope is a casual shrug. “Yeah, I, uh, was getting footage of the town at night.”
Her brows arch, amused. “In this fog? Better check that footage and make sure it came out.” She smooths the front of her floral blouse and cocks her head, studying me like she can see into my soul. “The Hollow can be awfully chilly at night. Hope you kept warm.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I sure did. “I was fine.”
Her smile deepens, like she suspects I’m full of shit but she’s trying to be merciful. “Breakfast’s still warm. Waffles, bacon, and sausage links today.”
My stomach growls. A bowl of cereal last night and nothing but coffee this morning hadn’t been enough. “I’m going to devour whatever’s left,” I warn her.
“That’s what I like to hear.” She chuckles.
Grateful for a reason to escape her scrutiny, I hurry into the dining room and load a plate with waffles, bacon, sausage, apple slices, and two apple crumb muffins. I take a seat by the window and drizzle maple syrup all over my waffle, then smear it with butter.
I’ve scarfed down half the waffle, several bacon strips, and a piece of muffin when I finally give in and check my phone. Nothing from Declan. Several texts from Wren.
I answer Wren and let her know I’m okay.
Then I just…stare at the screen.
Should I send Declan a picture of my breakfast? That’s casual, right? Or will he think I’m trying to make him feel bad for not feeding me this morning?
No. He said he had a client, he’s probably busy permanently inking someone’s skin.
I pull up my sleeve and stare at my bare arm, the faint blue veins beneath my pale skin. Would I be brave enough to let Declan actually mark me for life?
My gaze drifts to my wrist. The faint green line still glows there. It doesn’t hurt, or pulse, or do anything strange—it just exists. Magically, mysteriously, undeniably there.
Declan says it’s some sort of family curse.
Each generation inherits this…duty?
Is that what it is? An obligation to protect people from the Rider?
I pull out my notebook and scribble down some thoughts.
Video title: A Family Cursed for Generations—The Crowsbridge Hollow Legacy.
Tagline: Can the chain be broken?
I stare at the page. No. I can’t do that to Declan. It would expose him and his family trauma to the whole world.
Since when do I let personal feelings dictate my stories?
I chew on the end of my pencil. I can’t scrap the story entirely. I slash a line through the title. There has to be a better angle.
After breakfast, I sling my bag over my shoulder and head for the front door. Mrs. Applewood glances up with a bright smile and an expectant gleam in her eyes.
Please don’t ask me more questions about my night with Declan.
She claps her hands together. “I’ve got wonderful news.”
My shoulders tense automatically. “Wonderful news” in this town feels awfully ambitious.
I stop at the front desk and paste on an attentive smile. “What’s that?”
“They found the boy who was missing.”
“Mason?” I search my brain for his last name. How could I forget about him? “Baker, right?”
She nods quickly. “The Bakers are such a nice family. So lucky to have him back safe and sound.”
I open my mouth to ask where he was, but it seems inappropriate. “That’s great. What a relief.”
“Yes.” Her gaze strays to the front door. “Not every family is so lucky.”
Given what I learned at the library, that seems like an understatement.
She lowers her voice and leans forward. “Can you believe it? Supposedly he met a girl online and took a bus down to Virginia to meet her.”
“That’s bold,” I say carefully. Didn’t his parents ever teach him about stranger danger? “He’s lucky it didn’t end…um, badly.”
She tilts her head, studying my face. I can’t be the only one who’s ever watched To Catch a Predator, can I?
“Well,” she says, straightening, “her parents saw the reports about him being missing and called.”
“I don’t blame them.” I shift my bag higher on my shoulder. “Well, I’m glad he’s home.”
“Headed out to explore again?” she asks, voice lilting with curiosity.
“Library first, then who knows. I’ve got some local folklore to chase down.”
“Well, don’t go chasing it too far,” she says with a wink. “The Hollow has a way of keeping visitors longer than they plan to stay.”
Her words burrow deep. I actually like it here. What would it be like to stick around? Or maybe it’s not the town. Am I just infatuated with Declan?
Outside, Main Street smells faintly of rain and woodsmoke. The fog thins to lazy wisps that cling to the trees on the hill. A picturesque peace has enveloped the town, making it hard to believe it’s the kind of place where anything bad could possibly happen.
Still full from my plate of waffles and fatty meats, I walk at a brisk pace through the streets, admiring the architecture and stopping to read any plaques with historical information.
The Creepy Christmas theme seems to be spreading throughout town.
More black-and-red garlands coil around signs and railings.
A Victorian storefront window displays a Christmas village, except the little ceramic carolers have red, glowing eyes and too-wide painted smiles on their deranged little faces.
A Christmas tree on the courthouse lawn is decorated with bone-white ornaments that I hope aren’t real bones, tiny keys, locks, and itty-bitty black coffins.
A large black crow perches on top as the tree topper.
I pause to frame it and snap a few pictures.
Eventually, I end up at the library. A sign on the front door lists dates and times for various Creepy Christmas events, yet another reminder of the town’s unique quirkiness. Inside, the noise of the town drops away. It’s quiet except for the occasional squeak of the old radiator.
I spend hours combing through brittle newspaper archives and local histories. Half the articles mention the Rider in one form or another—always as a shadow, myth, or a cautionary tale. Never as something that actually exists.
The mark on my wrist disagrees.
My notes pile up in fragments and messy bullet points.
Recurring motifs: iron, bridges, bargains, bloodlines.
Earliest account: mid-1800s, Sterling family mentioned.
Possible connection: harvest festivals and “The Offering Ride.”
Somewhere between folklore and tragedy.
When I check my phone again, I’ve got three new messages from Wren.
Wren: you alive? Did you hear they found the kid?
Wren: why aren’t you posting stories??
Wren: omg did you actually find a ghost or just cute locals?
I smile despite myself and type back:
Me: I’m fine. Small town, of course I heard about Mason coming home.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. Should I tell her about the glowing green mark? The curse? Declan?
No. She’ll panic, demand I FaceTime her, and order me to come home.
Me: Just researching. I’ll send pics later.
I shove the phone back into my bag and close my notebook. The longer I sit here, the harder it is to ignore the ache under my skin—the restless pull to see Declan again. To make sure he’s okay. To prove last night wasn’t a fantasy sewn out of fog and bad decisions.
By the time I leave the library, the clouds have burned off enough to paint the storefronts in watery sunlight. The shop door to Chocolate Enchantments is propped open, and the scent of sugar wafts out like a siren song.
Inside, the girl behind the counter looks up and grins. “Back so soon?”
“For research purposes,” I tell her solemnly, pointing at the display. “Maple walnut, Rocky Road, and…surprise me—just nothing with mint.”
She laughs. “Rough day?”
“Let’s call it complicated.”
“You got it.”
A few minutes later, I step back onto Main Street clutching a paper bag heavy with a box of fudge. Should I go back to the inn?
Maybe Declan’s done for the day? I turn left toward House of Ink & Iron. If he’s still working, maybe he won’t mind me watching?
The closer I get, the faster my heart pounds. The shop’s tinted windows make it nearly impossible to see inside without pressing my nose to the glass.
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and push open the door. The bell jingles overhead.
The scent of cleaner and coffee hits my nose first. Then silence. No machines buzzing at the moment. No one grunting through the pain of getting inked.
Feminine laughter curls around the corner. My heart stops. I cock my head, listening. Is Declan with a client who’s ticklish?
That’s the best-case scenario.
Laughter trills again, luring me further into the shop.
It’s probably just a client. Nothing to get worked up over.
Why didn’t it ever occur to me that Declan probably sees women half naked all the time? He touches them. Plans art for their bodies. Finds the perfect placement on their skin.
No wonder he’s so good with his hands.
Stop it! It’s not like he owns a strip club, for god’s sake. I shake my head, hoping to silence the jealous commentary and stop the obscenely delicious images from last night replaying in my mind.
A woman walks out of the back hallway—short, dark pixie cut that emphasizes her high cheekbones, wine-red lips, confidence overflowing. She blinks and frowns at me, then quickly offers a friendly smile.
“Hi, can I help you?”
“Hi.” I clutch the bag of fudge tighter in my fist. “I’m…I’m looking for Declan.”
What am I so nervous about? He spent the night with me. I have every right to show up out of the blue and demand to see him. Right? That’s how this works, isn’t it?
Her gaze drops to a wide book on the counter. “He’s busy right now. Do you have an appointment?”
I open my mouth to tell her where to shove her appointment book, but Declan steps into view.
His eyes widen when he sees me, then his face softens into a pleased smile. “Emery, I didn’t think you’d—”
“I was in the neighborhood.” I hold up the bag. “I brought fudge.”
The woman smirks and pats Declan’s stomach, fingers lingering far too long. “Big D doesn’t eat sugar.”
Big D? My brain short-circuits.
Why is she touching him so intimately? Jealous rage washes over me in a powerful wave, drowning out my common sense and the sounds of the shop for a moment.
Why would he touch me last night, if he’s with someone else? Why’d he take me to his family home and give me a glimpse into his life?
My pendant hangs heavy around my neck. Jealousy wars with logic as I battle the urge to rip off the iron key and throw it across the room.
Slowly, I claw my way back to sanity. My gaze skips to Declan in time to catch his frown and the subtle way he brushes off the woman’s touch.
Declan’s smile vanishes. “Emery,” he says, loud enough to get my attention. “This is my assistant, Lucy.”
Lucy laughs and gives his side a playful slap. “I’m more than your assistant, you asshat.”
I swallow hard, heat burning behind my eyes. Absolutely not! I will not cry over a guy I barely know.
So what if he forgot to mention the girlfriend-slash-assistant before he finger-fucked me into an orgasmic stupor?
That’s what I get for believing a guy who talks about curses and marks and then makes you feel like you’re the only woman in the world.
“Nice to meet you,” I manage, my voice steady enough. I turn toward the door. “I’ll, uh, see you later, Declan.”
The bell jingles again as I push outside, choking on the metallic bite of humiliation.